


Out of Sorts

by junkverse



Series: trans skate boys [3]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Dysphoria, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-S1, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering, gratuitous typography trivia, trans Viktor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 06:19:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10985124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junkverse/pseuds/junkverse
Summary: Viktor struggles with his comeback to figure skating, and Yuuri tries to make it a little easier.





	Out of Sorts

Sometimes Viktor was a little _too_ aware of his body. 

He had to be, to an extent, when he was working out and practicing, in order to self-correct his jumps and steps and avoid injury, but. But with that came an increased awareness of his form, curves he wished he didn’t have, lines of muscle and bone that seemed jarring, and habits of movement he hadn’t quite been able to get rid of. There was only so much working out and hormones and surgery could do, unfortunately. 

It was something he’d learned to put up with during his career, and something he’d had the luxury of not thinking about too much while coaching Yuuri, his attention honed towards making sure Yuuri was in peak condition. But now, Viktor’s attention split: towards Yuuri, who had his Nationals and Four Continents coming up, towards his own return to the ice, and the subtle imperfections of his body that he’d been able to push aside.

It wasn’t omnipresent, but the sensation of… not dissatisfaction, but something deeper, hovered at the edge of his emotional perception more often than not.

Viktor had a sneaking suspicion his comeback was going to be harder for it.

Hell, it was harder _now_ -Viktor’s first few weeks back at the rink for practice had left him less cheerful, more snappish. Not a whole lot more, but enough that Yuuri and the Russian team had noticed his change in mood. He tried to play it off as his being rusty, but he wasn’t that good an actor, and neither his fiancee nor his rinkmates were stupid.

“You sure you’re good?” Yuuri asked. 

“Fine,” Viktor said, in a tone of voice that said quite the opposite. His palms and knees stung from his latest flubbed quad, and his hands shook as he started to peel off his gloves.

Yuuri frowned, silent. It was early afternoon on a Friday, the first of the public skate patrons coming onto the ice. Some of them craned their necks, hoping to catch a glimpse of Viktor, but most maintained a respectful distance. Yuuri was leaning up against the boards, water bottle in hand, and for once he looked more put together than Viktor did.

“Look, really, I’m just having an off day,” Viktor said, off of Yuuri’s concerned look. “I… I didn’t warm up enough, or maybe I need my blades sharpened, or-”

“Your ankles are wobbling,” Yuuri observed, his voice soft.

Viktor looked down. So they were. He sighed, elbows on the boards, head in his hands. 

“What’s wrong with me?” Viktor wondered.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Yuuri said, “you’re just… out of sorts.”

“‘Out of sorts,’” Viktor mumbled, “what does that even _mean_.”

“Do… do you want, like, a goofy answer or a serious answer?” Yuuri asked. “Because I have a serious answer for that. It’s very educational.”

Viktor laughed, a short humorless sound. “Maybe later.” He straightened, and tried not to wince at how the muscles and bones of his lower back protested. “I really should get back to-”

He felt a tug on his sleeve. He stopped.

“Viktor,” Yuuri said, his tone reprimanding, “you’re not doing yourself any favors skating like this.”

“My skating-”

“-is all over the place,” Yuuri said. “Or it is right now, anyway. Your spins are fine, but your step sequences are choppy, and I don’t think you’ve landed a quad since lunch.”

“You sound like a coach,” Viktor said.

Yuuri smiled. “I learned from the best,” he said. He leaned in, gave Viktor a kiss on the cheek. “Please go home and rest. For me?”

Viktor sighed. He’d always been terrible at refusing Yuuri anything.

“All right,” Viktor said. “I will. See you at home?”

“Of course.” Yuuri gave him a quick hug, another kiss. “I might be a bit late, but I’ll text you to let you know.” He cuffed Viktor lightly on the shoulder. “Now get outta here, before I have to carry you out.”

 

Going home early ended up being both a good idea and a bad idea.

Good because Viktor’s feet (and knees and hips and back and-) could rest and be tended to. There was a new crop of bruises blooming across the tops and arches of his feet, a blister on the back of his left heel, and walking was somewhat problematic once Viktor was out of his skates. And he could spend a little time with Makkachin, clean the apartment (as much as he could), catch up on social media, and take the time to unwind, if only a little.

Bad because now he had space to think.

It occurred to Viktor, as he idly pet Makkachin’s fur and scrolled, unseeing, through his Instagram feed, that this feeling -this not-dissatisfaction, this acrid, bitter thing that itched at the back of his head- wasn’t new. He’d been here before, though it had been a while. The whirlwind of the past year or so since Sochi had chased it away.

But he had been here.

He was having nightmares again, like what he used to have before he coached Yuuri -sharp, vicious things that kept him up. His old pains and aches were back, arches and ankles and knees and hips groaning and creaking with each spin and jump. And now, this: this horrid, queasy _wrongness_ , a thing Viktor hadn’t felt in its full force since he was a teenager, still binding his chest and just starting hormones.

Viktor wondered, bleakly, if coming back to the ice was such a good idea after all.

No, that wasn’t right. He _had_ missed competition, had itched to be on the ice, to surprise his audience once more. He wanted to compete alongside Yuuri, see what heights they could reach together. Even now, under the ugly wrongness, there was an electric thrill of anticipation for the coming season.

But still. He ached, he prickled, and he was tired, in more ways than one.

Eventually Viktor gave up on social media, or tidying the apartment, or anything resembling being productive, and slipped off the couch and drew a bath. He soaked until his skin started to prune (his tub couldn’t hold a candle to the springs back in Hasetsu, but he could pretend), tended to the blisters on his feet, and then collapsed into bed, hoping to catch a nap before Yuuri got back from the rink.

The nap didn’t happen.

He _tried_ to make it happen. He tried for two hours, according to his cell phone clock. The hours ticked on past, marked by the sounds of passing pedestrians and the odd thumping car stereo, and sleep didn’t come. Viktor watched the apartment darken around him, the warm yellows of late afternoon fading, rusting into dark reds and oranges that bled into a warm violet. The streetlights outside clicked on a little after seven, right around when Yuuri texted to let Viktor know he’d be home soon. Still Viktor didn’t sleep, feeling no more tired or alert than he had before, and he had to suppress the urge to kick the sheets away in frustration. (He couldn’t have, anyway; Makkachin was laying across his legs, the poodle’s heart thumping against the arches of his feet.)

It wasn’t like this was the first time he’d had trouble sleeping. But like the aches, the nebulous wrong feeling, it had been a while. It stung more after the absence. 

Presently he heard the apartment door open, shut, Makkachin perking up beside him. With a soft woof, Makkachin hopped off the bed and out the bedroom, nails clicking against the wood floors as he went to greet Yuuri. Viktor couldn’t make out what Yuuri was saying, but he could hear the warm affection in his voice as he cooed at the poodle, and Viktor smiled against his pillow.

More nail-clicking, rustling as Yuuri shed his coat, a thud as he shed his shoes and put them aside. Faint footsteps, the distant clatter of something in the kitchen. A space of silence before the footsteps returned, getting louder as Yuuri padded his way towards the bedroom. He paused, stepping more slowly and carefully as he entered, ducking into the bathroom. The bathroom door opening, closing, the sound of the shower turning on. Viktor listened to it all, oddly rapt, the sound of water against tile a welcome distraction from the queasy prickle of wrong that had been bothering him all day.

Eventually the shower ended, showerhead dripping as Yuuri toweled himself off. The click of the light, the creak of the bathroom door, and Yuuri was walking to the bed, steps muffled by carpet. The mattress dipped under Yuuri’s weight, the covers rustling as he went to move them… but he didn’t shuffle under them, didn’t press his body against Viktor’s, didn’t try to cajole Viktor out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. Viktor frowned, turning towards Yuuri, but froze when he felt the mattress dip again, just by his head, from the weight of Yuuri’s arm.

Viktor’s eyes snapped open, his vision dominated by Yuuri’s form, obscured in the late twilight gloom. The last vestiges of sun outlined his form, deep red and violet curving along his shoulders and forearm, glinting on the frame of his glasses. There was the minute sound of fabric shifting, and then the featherlight touch of Yuuri’s fingertips against his cheek. Viktor gasped quietly as Yuuri began to draw slow, soft lines along his cheek, fingers trailing down to Viktor’s chin and under his jaw.

Yuuri’s thumb ghosted over his jawline, tracing up to his ear before swooping back down his cheekbone, and gently pressing against his lower lip. Viktor’s breath hitched minutely and his eyes fluttered close, anticipating, but Yuuri was now running his hand through Viktor’s hair, brushing it back from his face, strands threading through his fingers. He tucked Viktor’s fringe behind his ear before tracing the column of Viktor’s neck with his fingertips, thumb pressing on the line of his collarbone, and over the fading hickeys he had left there days before.

His hand drew a line between his pecs, now, as the other hand reached up and cupped Viktor’s cheek. Viktor hummed, leaning into the touch, his body unfurling from the curled-up position he had been lying in as Yuuri continued to run his hands over Viktor’s sculpted form. Fingers danced across his chest, a glancing touch to the u-shaped scars there (Viktor had something of a lingering squeamishness about them, still, so Yuuri was careful to skip the silver-pink marks when he could). Back up to Viktor’s shoulders, smoothing over the bicep of Viktor’s right arm, past the elbow and down to his wrist. A finger traced the lines of Viktor’s palm before Yuuri raised Viktor’s hand to his lips, kissing each knuckle in turn, lingering on the engagement ring.

Viktor kissed at the hand resting against his face, lips pressing to Yuuri’s cool palm. He shifted again, legs falling open, and Yuuri climbed between them, resting his weight against Viktor’s hips and chest. Viktor sighed, hooking a leg around Yuuri’s hips, drawing him close, and Yuuri let go of Viktor’s hand to kiss him properly. His lips were soft, warm against Viktor’s, the kiss void of urgency or hunger. 

As much as Viktor enjoyed sex, enjoyed making Yuuri come undone (and Yuuri making him fall apart, in turn), there was something special about this, too. This gentle, unhurried exploration, these touches without any aim or purpose. It was something Viktor had not had much of, before Yuuri. Oh, certainly, he had had lovers -some good, some not- but no one else had made him feel quite this… precious. This wanted.

Yuuri’s lips were on Viktor’s neck, now, kissing softly over mostly-faded hickeys. He traveled down, trailing kisses to Viktor’s collarbone and chest before coming back up to kiss Viktor on the cheek, nose, mouth. He ran his tongue over Viktor’s bottom lip, and Viktor opened up, the two of them exploring, tasting each other. The feeling of wrongness hushed the longer they kissed, and Viktor felt more like himself than he had in a week.

They pulled away for air, and Viktor smiled up at Yuuri. Even in the dim light Viktor could see the curve of Yuuri’s mouth, the affection and love in his eyes, and it made Viktor feel like his heart was going to burst out of his chest.

“Didn’t wake you up, did I?” Yuuri asked, a hint of guilt coloring his voice.

Viktor shook his head. “Tried to nap, but it didn’t take,” he said. He trailed a hand up to Yuuri’s shoulder, drawing slow circles against the fabric of his shirt. “How was the rest of practice?”

“Good,” Yuuri said. “My lutzes are still a bit shaky, but I think I’ll have them down soon.”

“I’m sure you will,” Viktor said, kissing Yuuri on the nose. “Dinner?”

“In the kitchen,” Yuuri said. “Got sandwiches and soup from that place down the street. Hope that’s okay.”

“Perfect,” Viktor said. He kissed Yuuri again, on the lips this time, the movement slow and indulgent. “You’re perfect.”

Yuuri giggled, returning the kiss, the touch languid and soft. 

They laid like that for a time, trading lazy kisses, losing themselves in the slow dance of lips and tongues. At some point a slow, building heat began to seep into their touches, something like banked coals being stoked to life. Yuuri’s nightshirt was slowly peeled off and discarded, Viktor’s fingers immediately coming up to touch the freshly bare skin, drawn there as if by magnetism. Viktor let his hands roam, fingers gliding over familiar planes and dips of muscle, over the subtle softness of Yuuri’s stomach, taking a quiet sort of pleasure in the soft, restrained noises Yuuri made.

The heat built, slowly, something red and burning in Viktor’s core making him almost tremble with want. Soft murmurs became gasps and moans, unrestrained in the private intimacy of the moment. Presently Yuuri’s hands wandered down, down, fingers skimming over the muscles of Viktor’s chest and abs, hesitating just below the hem of his sweats, fingertips hooking into the band in a silent question.

“ _Yes_ ,” Viktor breathed, and the sweats were tugged down and off, Viktor shivering as the cool air hit his skin. Yuuri’s hands smoothed across the muscles there, his lips marking Viktor’s battered feet, the crease of his knee, the inside of his thighs, and pausing at the lines his hips. Again he hesitated, his gaze flicking up to Viktor’s, his eyes glittering with something like hunger in the wan light.

“Mouth or hands?” Yuuri asked.

“Either. Both,” Viktor said. “Just… _please_.”

Yuuri nodded, minutely, hands shifting from their place on Viktor’s thighs, fingers slowly parting Victor’s folds, thumb brushing against Viktor’s clit. Viktor’s breath stuttered as the fingers dipped into him, briefly, before withdrawing. Viktor whined, reaching for Yuuri, but soon enough Yuuri’s fingers were back, coated with a generous amount of lube.

“Yuuri, Yuuri,” Viktor said, over and over, already breathless, hands scrabbling over the solid muscles of Yuuri’s shoulders and back. Yuuri crooned Viktor’s name in turn, pressing sweet kisses to his cheeks and neck as he slowly worked him open, his fingers slowly spreading Viktor open and exploring him. His lips traveled down, tongue tracing against the lines of Viktor’s abs before pressing against Viktor’s clit, earning him a high, stuttering moan.

Yuuri hummed against him, the minute vibrations sending sparks up Viktor’s spine. Viktor’s hands fumbled, fingers sliding clumsily up Yuuri’s shoulder and neck before tangling in his thick, dark hair, trying to tug Yuuri as close as possible. Yuuri complied, tasting every part of Viktor he could get his mouth on, moaning at the taste, and Viktor couldn’t help the little thrilled shiver that ran through him, knowing how much Yuuri loved this.

The heat in his center built steadily until it was _searing_ , the red coil of desire in Viktor’s pit tightening and turning into something white, electric. His moans were pulled thin into keening whines, hips rocking in time with Yuuri’s tongue and fingers, his whole body aching for more. Any other time he would’ve asked, with an edge of breathless laughter to his voice, for Yuuri to _slow down,_ zoloste, _we have all night,_ but right now all he wanted was to come thoroughly and utterly undone by Yuuri’s touch.

It didn’t take much longer -a twist of Yuuri’s fingers as they dug into a particular bundle of nerves, and a hard suck on Viktor’s clit, and he was gone, voice fading into high, near-soundless gasping as he rode the waves of his orgasm. Yuuri kept his mouth on Viktor, working him through it, until Viktor weakly pushed Yuuri’s head away, shuddering from overstimulation.

Yuuri sat up, wiping at his mouth with the back of a hand, a bit of his usual shy demeanor creeping back in. “Was that okay?”

“Was that-” Viktor said, not quite laughing as he tried to catch his breath. “Yes, Yuuri, that was okay.” He reached up, pulling Yuuri into a wet kiss, shivering at the taste of himself on Yuuri’s lips, and said, “more than okay. So much more.”

Yuuri smiled against him, hands coming up to thread through Viktor’s hair as he deepened the kiss. His hips rolled slowly against Viktor’s thigh, and he gasped at the contact.

“Oh,” Viktor said. “You’re close, aren’t you?”

Yuuri huffed, nodded. He kissed Viktor again, sloppy and uncoordinated, and Viktor couldn’t help but giggle.

“Turn around,” Viktor said, softly. “Lay against me.”

Yuuri obeyed, his arms trembling slightly as he leaned into Viktor, resting his weight against Viktor’s chest. Viktor hummed as he drew Yuuri close, arms snaking around Yuuri’s middle, thumbs digging into the top of Yuuri’s sweats before pulling them down.

Viktor whistled. “Since when did you start going commando?”

“Since I moved in,” Yuuri said, his voice edged in something like desperation. 

“Wonder where you picked that up,” Viktor said, hiding a smile against Yuuri’s neck.

“Gee,” Yuuri said with a breathless sort of sarcasm, “I can’t imagine wh- _hhhh-_ ” His quip was cut off by Viktor finally taking his cock in hand, smearing the precum that had beaded at the head.

Yuuri moaned, writhing in Viktor’s hold, pressing his face into Viktor’s neck. Viktor murmured praise in Yuuri’s ear - _beautiful, so beautiful for me_ \- as one hand slid and twisted around Yuuri’s cock, the other gently thumbing Yuuri’s nipples. Yuuri bucked his hips, rising to meet Viktor’s hand, and all too soon he was coming, hot and slick over Viktor’s hand and his own chest.

Yuuri sighed, boneless, making little contented noises as Viktor cleaned him up with one of the tissues they kept by the bed. They lay together for a little while, Yuuri curled up against Viktor’s chest, his hands drawing lazy patterns on Viktor’s bicep. Viktor was just at the edge of dozing, the whole of him humming with contentment, when he remembered something from earlier, back at the rink.

“Out of sorts,” Viktor said.

“Hm?”

“Earlier, you said you had an answer for what ‘out of sorts’ meant.”

“Oh,” Yuuri said, absently. Then, “oh! Yeah, yeah, I do, it’s pretty interesting actually-” He sat up, and continued, “it’s, uh, a holdover from moveable type, when they had to put the letters in the printer one-by-one?”

“Really?” Viktor smiled, interested despite his fatigue. Yuuri’s enthusiasm was catching.

“Yeah. I don’t know how all it worked, but you kept the letters in their own drawers -big letters in the top drawers, and small ones in the bottom.”

“Oh. Uppercase and lowercase?”

Yuuri snapped his fingers. “Exactly! Anyway, the letters were called ‘sorts,’ and you had to be careful to put them back in their places in the drawers when you were done, or else you could be…” Yuuri spread his hands for dramatic effect, “out of sorts.”

“Huh.” Viktor lay back, closing his eyes for a moment and trying to picture it: little metal letterforms, tucked away neatly in their drawers. Then, the drawers jostled, upended, tiny consonants and vowels and bits of punctuation out of their space and shuffled together, or lost.

Viktor opened his eyes, and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess that is how I’ve been feeling.”

Yuuri pressed his lips into a thin line, his expression something like a pained sympathy. He pulled Viktor close, hands smoothing over the muscles of Viktor’s back, and Viktor let himself melt into the embrace. Yuuri was warm, present, his heart thrumming under Viktor’s ear, and while some of that bitter wrong feeling was creeping back into Viktor’s awareness, it felt small and petty under the weight of Yuuri’s love.

And then, Viktor’s stomach growled.

They both stared at Viktor’s abdomen for a moment before bursting into giggles. Yuuri sat up, shuffling off the bed before reaching for Viktor and pulling him up.

“C’mon then,” Yuuri said, pressing a quick kiss to the tip of Viktor’s nose. “That soup isn’t getting any warmer.”

Viktor nodded, following him up and out into the kitchen. The soup and sandwiches ended up being delicious, if not strictly on either of their diet plans. As Viktor sat on the couch with Yuuri and Makkachin, polishing off dinner, he was dimly aware of the ever-present ache in his feet and knees, of the faint undercurrent of anticipation and anxiety about their upcoming competitions. There was a too-keen knowledge of his own shortcomings, still, but it was okay.

It was okay.

**Author's Note:**

> goodness gracious, took me long enough.
> 
> I've had this languishing in my WIPs folder since, like, March because I had no idea how to handle the steamy bits of this. very new territory for me, but I think it turned out all right, all things considered. title isn't from a particular song this time, but I _did_ listen to [Mouth Moods](http://www.neilcic.com/mouthmoods/) a whole lot while writing this, so make of that what you will.
> 
> my thanks to Adrian for giving this a look-see to make sure I did good. you're the best
> 
> feedback's appreciated, and thanks for reading
> 
> (you can also find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/junkverse))


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